Is That Your Real Hair? (iykyk)

Let me set the scene for you. You walk into school on a Monday feeling like THAT girl because your braids are box-fresh, edges laid, beads clicking like applause with every step. You sit down in homeroom, open your notebook, and barely 45 seconds in, someone leans over and goes, “Wait… is that your real hair?”

Girl. GIRL.

I wish I had a dollar for every time someone has asked me that question. I’d be able to afford all the products it takes to keep this hair looking cute every week. You know what’s even wilder? The question never comes from a place of real curiosity. It’s this weird mix of disbelief, confusion, and low-key judgment. And it’s been happening since I was like…six years old.

The Elementary School Era: The Beginning of the Madness

Back in elementary school, my hair was already an adventure. One week I’d come in with colorful beads and barrettes, and the next week my mom would press my hair straight, and suddenly I was “a different person” to my classmates.

“Why is your hair longer today?”

“Why does it look curly now?”

“Did your mom buy you new hair?”

Like... girl what? I was just trying to eat my Lunchables and color inside the lines. I wasn’t ready to become a full-on hair educator at age seven.

And then there were the grabbers. You know them. The kids (and even teachers!) who felt entitled to just reach over and start patting your afro like you’re a fluffy pet. Like… no ma’am, I don’t go around rubbing your split ends unprovoked, do I?

Middle School: The Transition Into Full-Time Hair Explainer

By middle school, I thought people would be more mature. Spoiler alert: they weren’t. If anything, it got worse.

This was the era where I really started experimenting — cornrows with extensions, twist-outs, crochet styles, a failed perm or two (don’t judge me), and let’s not forget my first time trying a puff with eco gel that held on for dear life. I was getting into it, learning my hair, learning myself. But to everyone else? My hair was a “mystery.”

“Wait, so it was short last week, but now it’s long?”

“Did you cut your hair?”

“Is it a wig?”

“How do you sleep with that on?”

Then came the dreaded group project moment, when someone would boldly say, “No offense, but I just don’t get Black hair. Like, it changes every day. How do you even know what your real hair looks like?”

Baby, I KNOW what my real hair looks like. It’s thick, it’s kinky, it shrinks to half its length the second it touches water, and it’s magic. You might not understand it, but I’m not here to explain the laws of Black girl physics every Tuesday before gym class.

High School: Same Question, Just Louder

Now I’m in high school, and you’d think people would finally get the memo. You would be wrong. They still ask. Every. Single. Time.

“Is that your real hair?”

“So like, how long is your real hair?”

“How come it was short last month and now it’s down your back?”

“Wait, is this like sewn into your scalp?”

I’ve heard it all. One time, I had a girl stare at my scalp for like a full minute trying to figure out if my twists were “glued in.” Ma’am, do I look like I used Elmer’s?

Some days I just laugh it off. Other days, I’m over it. Not because I’m ashamed of my hair — far from it. I love my hair. I love that it can do a million things. I love that I can have an afro on Monday, Marley twists on Wednesday, and a slicked bun on Friday. I love that my hair is a crown I get to re-style whenever I want. But I hate that I always feel like I have to explain, justify, and defend it to people who have never had to answer these questions themselves.

The Real Tea

White girls can dye their hair purple one week and chop it into a pixie the next, and nobody bats an eye. But when a Black girl shows up with a new protective style? Suddenly it’s a class investigation.

The double standard is real. I’ve literally seen teachers be suspicious when I show up with a new style. “Is that allowed?” they ask, like my twists are going to start a riot.

Sometimes I want to just wear my bonnet to class and be like, “Y’all want the real hair experience? Here you go.” But I already know someone would ask if I joined a cult or started doing voodoo. The microaggressions are exhausting.

So, What’s the Answer?

Yes, sometimes it’s my “real” hair. Sometimes it’s a wig. Sometimes it’s braids. Sometimes it’s a twist-out. Sometimes it’s none of your business.

But no matter what it is, it’s me. It’s still my hair. It’s still my identity. It’s still my culture, creativity, and crown. Whether I grew it, bought it, braided it, or twisted it — it’s mine.

So the next time someone leans in and asks, “Is that your real hair?” I just smile and say:

“It’s real expensive, real cute, and really none of your business. iykyk.”

Dear Fellow Black Girls:

If you’ve ever had to do a whole Ted Talk in the middle of lunch just to explain why your afro isn’t “just frizz,” I see you.

If you’ve ever been scared to swim during gym because of the shrinkage? Girl, same.

If you’ve ever spent hours in a chair only to have someone say, “Oh… that’s different,” just know you’re not alone.

Our hair is not a mystery. It’s a masterpiece.

Wear it however you want — short, long, braided, bald, whatever. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. They’re just mad their hair can’t do what ours does effortlessly.

And when they ask that tired old question, just roll your eyes, flip your curls, and walk away. You’ve got better things to do than give a hair history lesson. Like slaying. Period.

#BlackGirlHairChronicles

If you’re reading this and nodding your head, send this to your group chat, post it on your story, and remember: your hair doesn’t need to make sense to anybody but you. And maybe your stylist. Love yourself, and your coils, sis. Always.